Christian Shmistian

I’m a Christian, but I don’t believe in organized religion. Am I spiritual? Considering the fact that I’m a spirit occupying a body, I’d have to answer, “Yes.” But, keep in mind, that ‘spiritual’ can mean most anything. You’ll never hear me say, “I’m not religious, I’m spiritual.” I would say, “I’m a Christian who doesn’t believe in organized religion,” Or I’d tell you that it’s none of your business. Whatever is appropriate. 

God says that where two, or more, are gathered together in His name, He is in the midst of them. That’s something that occurs regularly in my life, even though I don’t attend church. I have come not to trust most church folk, but have the pleasure of knowing a few lovely and sincere ones. However, in my personal experience, they are not very nice people as a whole, unless you sin the same way they do. Few of them, though they may not cuss or carry on, are nearly as holy as they’d lead you to believe. Like my brother says, “If ya can’t get laid in church, you ain’t never gonna get laid.”

A comment on FB yesterday has gotten me to examine my walk with Christ, as well as my faith, in general. He said that only a tiny few Christians are truly Christian. I agree. I consider myself to be one of them, but I’m certain the man would not see it that way. That’s OK with me. It’s up to us to seek out our own salvation with fear and trembling . Fortunately, Almighty God sent His son to die for our sin. He did not create us to be perfect, then He went and gave us free will and wrapped our souls in a sin suit. Were it not for Jesus, we’d all burn in Hell. That’s just the way of it. 

I do often wonder what the Lord thinks of me. Why would I be worthy of His sacrifice? I know I’m not worthy by way of my misdeeds. And my good deeds don’t make me any more worthy. The only thing that makes me anything in God’s eyes is His son’s sacrifice. Thank God that He loved the world that much. 

My opinion about the modern church, (not to be confused with THE Church/bride of Christ), may be misguided. If so, that’s my sin to pay for before Almighty God. To me, organized religion is simply a way for the wicked to disguise themselves while, what is frequently a wolf in sheep’s clothing, spins yarns and spoon feeds his personalized brand of crap to people barely awake in more ways in one. That’s all. 

She Laughed


What did she do on her last day? 

Did she scream? 

Cry? 

Did she speak in riddles? 

Yes. Yes, she did. 

Why do you suppose she took such grave action against herself? 

Was she sad?

Was she lonely? 

Was she broken hearted? 

Indeed. Most, certainly. 

What words did you hear her say at her last? 

Goodbye? 

I love you? 

So cruel is the world? 

No. No such things were spoken. 

She laughed. 

Talking Points

A few days ago, I was given the task of writing a eulogy for Dad’s funeral, just so we’re totally prepared when the time comes. He made all the arrangements, himself, may long years ago. So, the eulogy is all that’s left. Yep. Just in case… 

I texted my brother, who was chosen to say the words that will sum up my father’s life. He is the person who is left to convey to mourners and critics, alike, who my father truly was in this world. And the sonofabitch needs talking points, instead of what I’ve written. OK. Will do! 

Around 3:43 this morning, it hit me…my brother needs talking points because he doesn’t know enough about my dad to fill a fucking thimble. He knows the bad things. God knows, the whole family knows every damn bad thing my dad ever did. The fact that my brother needs talking points to pay respects to his grandfather is a testament to how far his head is up his own ass.

I thought I was OK with this puppet show, but I’m not. Not at all. I may not even go to the funeral. Dad and I are square, as always. We said our goodbyes out on Mom’s back porch one day when he was lucid. It was one of the last times he remembered me. I love that old man more than I love myself and he’s taking my heart with him when it’s his time. I don’t want to watch the spectacle of him being eulogised by someone who doesn’t even know that Dad wasn’t given a middle name. He would always use the letter K in place of a name, when it was called for. When I was little, he’d tell me it stood for Kwana, (intentionally misspelled), Parker, the famous Camanche chief. Then, he’d spin a long tale about how that came to be. It was different every time…lol! 

I suppose I should end this morning rant. Injustice upset and have no real say in changing things. I guess I should get those talking points ready so they can get lost in my brother’s briefcase. Yeah, Friday! Or….whatever. 

The Ferryman Awaits

wp-image-40924923.

 

In light of my father’s new health issue, and possibility of eminent death, I have been chosen to write the eulogy, so we’ll be prepared when the time comes. My oldest younger brother will be giving it, even though he’ll be speaking my words. They will be fine words, indeed. There will be a short synopsis of his life, followed by a few scriptures, lest any heathens leave in the condition they came in. My brother will sell it as if he were close to my dad. He will preach and he will speak of Heavenly things, and he will not be wrong to do so. After all, isn’t that what modern man finds acceptable when in the presence of a preserved, albeit dead, body?

You’ll forgive me if I sound harsh, won’t you? The fact of the matter is that I am not happy with anything that is happening right now. I was supposed to eulogize my father, but Mom is concerned about the words I might say. She has good reason. My patience is thin from those who haven’t bothered to see him in the last decade. They now want to feign sorrow as if they’ve lost their best friend. Fuck them. If any of his grandchildren, great or otherwise, shed one tear at that funeral, I fully intend to knock the living shit out of them. They never cared for my father. They’ve spent their whole lives listening of tales about him…of things he did a lifetime ago. Nevermind that he’s lived in redemption longer than they’ve been on this planet. I’m so angry right now that I could spit.

All I’m saying is that this is no time for pageantry, or photo ops with the grandkids. Nobody gives a shit about your fake ass Louboutins or how good your little monster is doing in school. Teach her to respect her elders lately? I didn’t think so. My dad has nine grandkids and an enormous number of greats. Out of all of them, (including my boys, with whom I am also disgusted), none of them sees him except on holidays. Yep…they are Johnny on the spot when they’re going to be stuffing themselves, or tearing through gifts like animals. I cannot say enough to express my disgust. I’m the only one who has always seen him and been close to him. I’m the only one he raised. That’s not my fault, or his. Even so, you’d think one of these good Christian folks could carve out a lil time for, not only their grandfather, but for their brother in Christ.

My brother is going to text me a few scriptures that he’d like highlighted in the eulogy. I can’t wait to see which ones. I may include a ‘stand and share’ portion. lol! Oh, my, that would be wonderful! I am certain that my mother would see to it that was edited out, but I’d love a chance to say what I think to all of those people, at once.

I’d better get going. I have a eulogy to write…

 

 

800 Days


Dear Bennie, 

It’s been nearly 800 days since you’ve been gone. I never truly thought you’d go before me…I’d hoped that you wouldn’t. You always loved life much more than I do. It just doesn’t seem fair. 

I feel guilty for living here, in Mayberry…in the little house on the land you loved so much. Even though I’m broke, life isn’t bad…it’s really good. I wake every morning feeling grateful to be in this place. But, every time I look at the trees I love so much, I see you walking out of the woods, rifle under your arm, the girls right behind their daddy. They’re gone, too. You passed, then Pepper. Then, one day, Jezebel just laid down under your truck and died. I think she died of a broken heart, as she never stopped looking for you. The last time she saw you alive, you were in that truck. That was the last time I saw you, too. 

We parked the truck right next to the house so I could see it. It made you seem alive, somehow. We’re going to move it soon. I’m ready to be free of that reminder of you. Nowadays, it makes me feel so guilty when I see it. I can’t escape it…this guilt. It should’ve been me, that’s all. 

Everybody thinks I should be over you by now because you were such a bastard. You were, that’s true. But I barely remember you that way anymore. I remember you like every day is the first time we met. We made so many good memories, you and I. They outweigh the bad ones more with each passing day.

I’ve always owed you a debt of gratitude for you saving me from the life I had when we met. I remember how your mom thought it was terrible that you were dating a girl from ‘the other side of Palmer’. She never let me forget where I came from. But you did. You loved me like I was good enough and I loved you more than anything. And that remained for twenty years. I don’t remember what it was that changed things so much. All I know is that, one day, life was Heaven…the next, all Hell broke loose. I guess we burned out. Just like that. But I don’t care about that anymore, I just want you back here with me. 

I remember the last time I held your hand. It was swollen, stiff, and freezing cold. I knew you were long gone. I can still feel your hand in mine and it kills me inside. I just never thought this could happen. And I never dreamed it would hurt so much after almost 800 days. 

All my love, L. 

Untitled 


Scarlet rivers run quickly

And I kneel beside you

Taking my part

Ravenous, you bless me with what I crave

I allow you to take part in another day

We are the two sides, you and I

Of the same coin, we are

Dripping in gold; minted in steel

No man need scratch our surface

Lest he succumb to the temptation beneath 

We laugh our way down our path, to the Left

Veering, just so

As, farther and farther

Beyond the Veil, together, we go

What I Walk Away From Is Not My Master

My head hurts. Not much feeling like facing this morning…this day. Waiting on meds to kick in and erase the me and transform me to the she. She’s the one people like. I’m the one they avoid. 

Last evening, I was staring at Bennie’s picture, thinking about that giant bill for a surgery that he, and all parties involved, knew he couldn’t survive. Yeah, I was ticked off, as usual, about it. Mad at him. So extremely pissed at those ghouls that did the surgery. Wondering why it went down the way it did. Then, like a bolt of lightning, I realized that the reason why he agreed to the surgery was so he’d be knocked out when he died…he’d never feel that horrible pain, or lie in a hospital bed wondering when the end was coming. They knew it was going to be that day, but they did not know the hour or minute that Death would come for him. He agreed to the surgery so that he could decide when his time would come. Bless his heart. I understand now, and I feel so relieved. It’s a huge load off my shoulders to finally get it. 
It means everything to me to know. Finally, an answer in a sea of a million ‘whys’.

live by the drug, die by the drug

This dude, Biggie, died a horrible death about two weeks ago.As it was told to me,  it all started when he was was pulled over for a traffic violation. He had 3 eight balls on him. When he saw the lights behind him, he swallowed the bags.
He was already feeling sick by the time the stop was over, but not so much that the officer noticed. Biggie left the stop and hauled ass to a friend’s house. There were several people at the house. They said that, when he arrived, he was beet red, heart 1~2racing…saturated with sweat. He quickly became unconscious. Paramedics were called as the people at the house began the futile attempt to save his life.
As seconds turned to minutes, they tried to induce vomiting, to no avail. Biggie had a seizure while they ran a cold bath, trying to get his temp down. Minutes later, help arrived. He was dead shortly thereafter. Meth overdose in the extreme.

 
Biggie was a one man plague when I knew him. Obviously in his mid twenties, he hung out with teenagers, provided them with drugs and alcohol, and was just a really bad guy. I figured him for a cop or, at the least, a snitch. People went to jail when he came around. And he always made as much trouble as he could. He and I locked horns from Day 1.
After Biggie died, his dad posted to his only son’s FB wall. He said that there would be no service and that he intended to simply ‘dispose of the remains’. He was cruel. Very cruel. For all that Biggie may have been, he was a product of that man’s making. I’ve never understood how a parent could hate a child, although I think I hated my youngest, at one time. Even so, I did everything in my power to protect him from the likes of Biggie. I went to Hell and back for that kid, and now he’s a good man who has left dope behind.

 
There are many reasons that I hated Biggie. The absolute tipping point came when, one night at a party, he got my youngest on the ground and kicked him in the head over and over again. Once Youngest got up, he put an ass whippin on Biggie that made him regret doing all that kicking. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a gun came out and I got a call from Youngest’s girlfriend screaming for me to get over to the house they were at fast. I did. She and Youngest were at the end of the driveway. She was holding him back the best she could. There were about seven people in the front yard, all threatening my son as his girl begged them to stop while pleading with Youngest to just walk away.

 

I got there a few minutes after the call. I jumped out and tried to get Youngest in the truck. This one bitch was throwing beer bottles at us, and that was just making Youngest more angry. Then, I noticed a red dot on my son’s side while he was standing there, screaming at the people in the yard. Everybody was threatening everyone else, it seemed. Most were threatening Youngest, though I have no clue why to this very day. I got in front of Youngest and turned around to see where that dot was coming from. It was Biggie standing about ten feet away, holding a pistol with a laser sight. That sonofabitch. He didn’t even put it down when that fucking dot was on my stomach, still pointed exactly where it had been before I got between him and Youngest.
We finally got Youngest into the truck and hauled ass. He was tripping so hard he didn’t even know who I was. He was still feeling violent and his girlfriend couldn’t calm him down any better than I could. All I could think about was Biggie and that gun and that he was going to kill my son.

 
While I’m not happy that a young man is dead, I will say that he lived a life that couldn’t have lead him anywhere but to the grave. What goes around comes around…that’s just the way it is. But, I do hope that, one day, Biggie’s dad will get off of his high horse and realize what he lost. Whatever his faults, Biggie was his son, and that’s no small thing. I also think that the world is now short one more bad guy; One less dope slinger/snitch/dirty lil cop?/violent piece of shit. I thank God that gun didn’t go off and I am grateful that my son lived to become a good man like his brother. I’m grateful that I lived to see my grandson born. Shit could have gotten way more twisted that night. The fact that it didn’t feels like a miracle to me.

 
Biggie and I knocked heads a few times after that, but we never discussed what happened that night. Whatever may have ever happened between us, I honestly hate the thought of anyone going out the way he did. My God. He was, in some way, literally consumed by dope. The same shit he sold to kids took his life in a slow and painful way. He suffered. He didn’t want to die. He did not want to die. Oh, my God…I can’t even imagine the fear he must have felt; the panic. It breaks my heart for him. He was somebody’s son. And, even if that somebody didn’t love him, he cannot be denied his blood. I pray that Biggie knew God in the hour of his death and that all was forgiven, as I would want to be forgiven. I pray that someone in his family loved him enough to miss him now that he’s gone forever. Mostly, I pray that he faded out before the worst of it all. Even bad guys aren’t all bad. I know there was something good about that kid. I don’t know what good was in him, but I don’t take any joy in the horror that befell that young man on April the 26th, 2018.

the truth and burnt biscuits

wp-image-2069911489.

in the still of this night, i remember your voice
your breath, heavy on my neck…in my ear
it’s as if your were right beside me in my lonely bed
oh, the silly imaginations that come deep in the silence of the darkness
never, since the day you died, have i felt closer to you
you are a shadow at my back
your hand is the morning sun caressing my face
your eyes seem to share my own, as i view this world so differently since you’ve gone
in the morning, as i make breakfast, i feel you sitting at the kitchen table
you never look up from your phone, or paper
some things never change
no matter how hard i try, i burn the biscuits, and, in my mind’s eye, i see you give me that look
that disgusted look, as though i’ve lost the farm on a bet
i say i’m sorry and you instantly flash a smile, as though you hadn’t just cursed me with that look of yours…that heavy sigh…the shake of your head
i begin to cry, and i feel you leave as i wipe the tears from my eyes, shooing you out of my kitchen
and i’m happy that you’re gone
because, during those few minutes, i recall the pain of being your wife
i remember what it was like to feel like a prisoner in my own home
i hear the venom in your voice when you spoke to me
the gun by your chair
the pills
the pills
the pills
and, though i’m not proud of it, i am grateful that you’re gone
but, by the light of day, the truth shows itself
and no lovely hue cast upon me by the sun can change one bit of that truth
it’s your truth…mine…ours
even though i may, sometimes, forget that truth in the still of a lonely night, i’ll always have sunshine and burnt biscuits to bring me back to reality